


Nothing More, Nothing Less

by TrashGarden



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barebacking, Casual Sex, Consensual Violence, Dom/sub, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, No Lube, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Canon, Public Sex, Really Rough Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, University, Unrequited Love, go directly to ch. 2 for the sex if that's your thing, im not kidding, some blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashGarden/pseuds/TrashGarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa ponders and bites his lip; it’s sweet and sour, remnants of his drink not fully washed away from the water, “Not really. I always assumed you were a virgin.” </p><p>Ushijima raises a thick eyebrow at Oikawa’s mock nonchalance. “Do I give off that impression?”</p><p>[Alternatively: In which Ushijima Wakatoshi ends up being a Very Bad Decision.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conception

**Author's Note:**

> So I guess I can't get enough of post-canon UshiOi+Iwa. This is more indulgent, mostly me just spluttering out angsty, unhealthy sexual tension and making characters I love suffer also someone help me I have way too many UshiOi headcanons that I accidentally into fanfiction
> 
> help
> 
> also pls excuse typos and the like, hands are tiny and I have no friends to beta read this

Oikawa hates being alone. More accurately, he hates drinking alone. It always feels pathetic, something only lonely businessmen and unpopular hostesses do to forget their misery.

Though at this moment, at this trashy bar littered with people he has no interest in getting to know, he’s no different. If only it actually worked. If only the burn of the booze down his throat and the fuzzy field of vision in this dark club actually helped his self pity. Instead, he found himself often pitying himself while also emptying the little contents of his stomach he had that evening. Drinking didn’t erase his problems. Soon, it was going to create new ones.

College fucking sucked so far for Oikawa Tooru. He’d been scouted for the national Olympics volleyball team, sure. But college itself was horrible, no good, very bad Not Fun. His studies were no different from high school, for the most part. He’d even had his best friend Iwaizumi Hajime in the same university as him, much to the delight of his parents, who’d told Oikawa he had no business going off without his Iwa-chan to look after him. The pair even shared an apartment in the city, a modest two bedroom within walking distance to the university and Iwaizumi’s new part-time job at an athletics store. Iwaizumi had many new things it seemed. Horrible, no good, very bad Things. One of those things had a name. Oikawa didn’t know what her name was, though; all he knew was the sinking pit in his stomach he experienced when Iwaizumi first told him about her.

It had been only a month after starting their first semester, and more specifically, two months ago from Oikawa’s current tipsy status. Iwaizumi and Oikawa had been walking home that day from a lecture, the sun setting behind tall buildings and casting pink shades of light across the sidewalk. Oikawa remembered the exact moment his heart broke; Iwaizumi told him that he’d actually found a girlfriend. He had begun describing her as a second year, started talking about how she’d approached him the day before, and confessed to him. The setter hadn’t been able to hear the rest of her qualifications from Iwaizumi, the buzz in his ears echoing away all other thought.

Oikawa still remembers the grief at the realization that he’d actually been replaced. Well, not like he was in the running anyway. He’d planned on _eventually_ confessing to Iwaizumi, with no exact date set in mind. He wasn’t aware his plans had possessed an expiration date. For years, he’d been too insecure about these suffocating feelings, using the lavish attention of multiple girls to try and forget them,and maybe this was some kind of twisted karma for carelessly romancing girls.  And there was no doubt a part of Oikawa that wanted Iwaizumi to tell him he didn’t need any of the girls the setter entertained, to get jealous, to look at no one else. But expecting that kind of envy seemed ridiculous now; after all, Iwaizumi was _happy_. At least, that’s what he assumed. He never asked Iwaizumi about her, always changed the subject to something, anything but this new girl who had somehow acquired what he’d wanted for years in just a few days.

At this point, maybe it was better that Oikawa never got a chance to confess, since it was seemingly confirmed that Iwaizumi was straight. Truth be told, he’d had a chance. He had a chance for years. It wasn’t as if Iwaizumi being unattached to this one girl would have made him as gay as Oikawa was.  At least now, they could remain friends.

Best friends.

As “friendly” as they could be when Oikawa actively avoided him. Iwaizumi seemed to know something was up, but also knew Oikawa was more than prone to his moments of seclusion, particularly when Olympic trials were coming up. Oikawa had half hoped he’d get a confrontation, even an argument to scold him for being selfish. But he also couldn’t blame Iwa-chan. With his busy schedule, Iwaizumi was beginning to have his own life. Outside of Oikawa, probably. It was only natural that Iwaizumi Hajime wanted to experience a normal college life, and a girlfriend wasn’t too far from that. He knew he should be doing the same, exploring Tokyo and creating new experiences. But without the possibility, the shred of hope that Iwaizumi would just stay by his side forever and possibly even look at him as more than a friend, the city seemed too dull to even keep him awake. Or sober, at this point. No matter how many rationalizations he’d spun in his head, it didn’t help the loneliness. The alcohol sure as hell didn’t.

The bar itself is hidden behind a restaurant that’s closed during the night, and borders a noisy izakaya that didn’t even come close to drowning the loud music. This bar is one of Oikawa’s favorites. Not because of the staff, or the decor, or the cheap drinks. This bar was situated in Ni-chome, Tokyo’s gay district, and the patrons reflected that. Occasionally he would be bothered by a rogue salaryman cruising or a delicate waif-type looking for someone to use him, but for the most part, he was left alone. More importantly, he was guaranteed not to see anyone he knew, anyone that could rat him out to Iwaizumi, and on the off chance he did see anyone he knew, they sure as hell weren’t likely to say anything, lest they have to explain their own reasoning for being in such a bar at such an hour.

So, Oikawa gets complacent at his seat by himself in a small booth near the back of the bar. He lets his head fall lazily to the side, resting on his shoulder. He clenches a tall rum and coke, his fifth that night. Thankfully the bartender was particularly fond of him and rarely charged for drinks, instead preferring to treat Oikawa as an ornamental decoration. Oikawa would be considered such, if he keeps up his frequent schedule. He lets the bass of the music thrum in his ears and twirls the straw in his drink, pushing the garnishing lime past melting ice.  

He likes to people watch. Normally at parties and group dates he’d been on with girls, he was the life of the party and had no problem entertaining until sunrise. But a place like this allowed Oikawa to not have to focus on being social, especially when his mood and current stresses seemed to have sucked away most of his social energy and replaced it with heartbreak. Auburn eyes follow a drunk salaryman and a tall host-looking brunet into the bar’s bathroom, where he assumes they’ll do anything but talk. It was no secret what the bathrooms and alleyways of Ni-chome were used for, and this bar was no different. It was also no lie that Oikawa had experienced such activities himself.

About five weeks prior to tonight, he’d run into Iwaizumi and his girlfriend at the apartment for the first time. He’d walked through the threshold, groceries in tow. The sounds of conversation and the TV playing some variety show in the background filled the apartment he shared with Iwaizumi. And for this night’s dinner, apparently the new girlfriend. He recalls getting his first look at her in their kitchen with an apron and a ladle, and Oikawa wondered if they even _owned_ an apron. Seeing her in person was bruising; she was everything he wasn’t. Dainty, delicate, with soft pin straight black hair. Clearly feminine and traditional, almost too traditional for Iwaizumi’s hot  headed self, Oikawa remembers thinking.

He couldn’t fucking stand it. All he remembers is making an excuse about a late night date with an imaginary girl. Or maybe it was something about getting back a textbook from a classmate. It didn’t matter; what he definitely, for sure, one hundred percent remembers is letting a host corner him against a wall in the back of the very bar he was in now. The guy wasn’t bad looking, but maybe was trying too hard; bleached blond hair stuck up in well-maintained style, his body covered in high maintenance clothes and flashy accessories not uncommon of hosts. Oikawa assumed at the time that he must get tired of constantly romancing women, or maybe he had wanted to try his hand out with men. Either way, Oikawa wasn’t that surprised when he let himself be led to a back room away from the main bar. He looked absolutely nothing like Iwaizumi, and the setter wasn’t quite sure it was for better or worse, all he knew was he wanted something, anything to escape the numbness in his bones. He was sure about the feeling of being pushed against a new unfamiliar wall, and that was when Oikawa had looked around the room to see more than one shadowy figure in the partially lit darkness,  their sounds drowned by the music. All Oikawa saw was a flash of white teeth and a tongue piercing before the host knelt down, not taking any time. He allowed his hands to reach down into starchy, styled blond locks as he was pleasured.

He’d been serviced by women before in high school. Mostly by pushy women who had decided that they could keep Oikawa chained to them by using sexual favors, but this was different. While this host had clearly looked absolutely nothing like his best friend, the hardness of a male’s body was so much different than a woman’s, and comforting, _familiar_. Blue eyes stared up at him, and Oikawa caught the glint of contacts, and immediately looked away. The mouth around his hard cock had been warm and wet, the perfect amount of suction drawing out quiet moans from him, but it wasn’t what he’d imagined. He couldn’t help but wish those eyes had been dark as night, like Iwaizumi’s. He couldn’t help but wish the long bleached hair would turn to dark, spiky locks. Nevertheless, he remembers cumming in a wet spurt down the stranger’s throat, balls contracting in orgasm, shame immediately washing over him.

Now, he doesn’t care to think of that unsatisfying experience. Oikawa’s seen that guy around a couple times, and he got himself tested after that since they didn’t use a condom. Thankfully he was clean, but that didn’t stop Oikawa from deciding to abstain from any further activities with strangers. Or anyone. It was humiliating enough that Iwaizumi didn’t want him, and the last thing he needed was to just throw himself at just anyone willing to take him.

It’s around 12:30AM, early for nightclub standards, when Oikawa checks his phone. He has a few texts from girls in his classes, as well as a TA even. But his eyes scroll past, looking for Iwaizumi’s name. When he finds it, he opens the text: “Are you coming home tonight? I’ll leave the light on for you so you don't run into the coffee table again, asshole.”

His face cracks in a wry smile, his hand traveling up to run his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t know why it hurts; Iwaizumi has always looked out for him. Now was no different. Perhaps it was because before, Oikawa could pretend that Iwaizumi’s concern was attached to something more, something deeper, something signifying even a fraction of his own feelings. But with new events, it seemed everything was just painfully platonic, a responsibility Iwa-chan probably felt towards his childhood friend, built up by years of being comfortable with each other.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

When he’s scanning the crowd for more interesting characters to take his focus away from his own thoughts, he lingers on the bar. New patrons seem to be coming in and out, but one catches his eye. Maybe because from behind, he sticks out, just because he _doesn’t_ stick out. Oikawa can’t make out too many details in the flashing lights and darkness of the club, but he sees broad shoulders covered by what appears to be a black button up that matches his dark hair. It’s not unusual for other customers of this establishment to be outlandish, flashy, or even appear obscenely wealthy (as was the case for many salarymen in suits). But this newcomer was as normal as they come, aside from his height and shoulders. Oikawa spots thick forearms and rolled up sleeves when the man takes a seat at the bar.

The setter crosses his legs and takes a sip from his mostly watered down drink. It’s bitter, a bit sour from the lime juice, but it’s nice and cool down his throat. When he puts his glass down, he refocuses his vision and notices the man at the bar facing back at him, the back of his head no longer visible. His sight is slightly blurry in his tipsy state, so he narrows his eyes and tries to discreetly read the other patron’s expression; if it’s some stranger trying to pick him up, he’d have to rebuff him soon.

The scattering colorful lights from the ceiling finally flash over the man’s face, a hint of gold caught in the glimmer.

_Fuck._

Oikawa immediately recognizes him. But mostly he recognizes those _eyes_ ; those golden, eagle-like eyes that  had always stared him down so intensely after every brutal loss in high school and junior high, a constant reminder of nothing but failure and _loss_. He’d recognize those eyes anywhere, and this dark, crowded bar was no exception, alcohol be damned. The lights travel down in sporadic flashes, giving Oikawa a glimpse of a defined jaw and thick Adam’s apple attached to a collar that trails down into a broad chest. It’s almost nostalgic, seeing someone from his high school days here, despite the fact that it’s Ushijima of all people. It felt as if high school was years away, not less than a year, and Oikawa doesn’t like to admit that it’s most likely due to his current heartbreak.  

Maybe it’s the booze, but Oikawa has to laugh now, and it’s a breathy chuckle that catches on his teeth. Of fucking course it would be Ushijima that would be the one to catch him here; he knew the wing spiker was also recruited for the Olympic team, but wasn’t sure if he was actually living in Tokyo as well. The idea of Ushijima merely being here to rat him out dances through his mind for a split second before he dismisses it.  After all, Ushijima finally has his chance to claim Oikawa as his setter when practice starts up, a fact that Oikawa hadn’t quite come to terms with yet; there was no way Ushijima would let something like sexual orientation get in the way of his ambitions.

But now, Oikawa has to come to a different possible explanation, one that makes him narrow his eyes, makes his lips grin against the straw of his drink. He then leans back in his seat and lets his back rest against the dark wall behind him, exhaling a half-sigh through his teeth. His tongue still has the sour taste of his watered down drink when he catches those gold eyes still staring, honed in pointedly in Oikawa’s direction, and it’s no question that he’s been recognized himself. He can see the gears turning in Ushijima’s stoic expression, and it almost makes the setter inexplicably angry when he sees barely any reaction returned.   

Ushijima’s attention is pulled away abruptly by the bartender who hands him something Oikawa can’t see behind Ushijima’s back. He doesn’t wonder where Ushijima is going when he turns around with something in hand, he just _knows_ , knows that any attempts to move would be useless. Oikawa recalls being followed after Seijoh’s loss against Karasuno, remembers every time Ushijima always managed to track him down before and after tournaments, despite Oikawa actively avoiding him. The fresh memory of the wing spiker always being able to track him down like a bird of prey annoys him, but he simply doesn’t have it in him anymore to try and flee.

After all, Ushijima may have lost to Karasuno, but Oikawa is now on the same team as him. _Perhaps in more ways than one_ , Oikawa laughs internally. His stomach is hot, anxiety mixing with the buzz of the alcohol deep in his core, making his limbs feel heavier. The taller man was approaching quickly, and he weaves in and out of groups of people towards Oikawa until they are face to face.

Ushijima is now in front of him, appearing even more imposing while standing over Oikawa’s relaxed form in the booth. Piercing eyes scan over Oikawa in mild observation as he notices the three mostly empty glasses, the lines of his face appearing sober as could be. Though Oikawa wasn’t sure Ushijima would even show it if he was drunk, anyway. Up close, Oikawa can now see that Ushijima’s shirt is actually a deep navy blue, and that his left hand is holding two cold, sweating water bottles by the cap, and his right held some kind of dark liquor on the rocks in a clear glass. Probably whiskey, Oikawa notes.

Oikawa is the first to speak in his usual cheerful tone, “Did you bring me a drink, Ushiwaka-chan? I’m more of a rum person.”

Instead of an immediate reply or his usual displeasure at Oikawa’s nickname for him, Ushijima simply places the two water bottles on the shaky table in front of him. Without asking, he sets down the whiskey next to the water bottles and takes a seat next to Oikawa, and the setter feels the cushion of the booth’s seat shift with the added weight. Ushijima is close, too close for comfort, with his shoulders almost grazing Oikawa’s in the small booth. The booming music pounds into Oikawa’s ears, but somehow it seems even quieter than when he was drinking alone.

“Drink.” Ushijima motions to the water bottles on the table while placing a large hand around what Oikawa assumed was his whiskey. Oikawa isn’t sure if Ushijima had bought the bottles for him specifically, or if the bartender sent them over, but he doesn’t really care. To think Ushijima would be an experienced enough drunk to know the importance of hydration to prevent hangovers almost made Oikawa laugh.

Nevertheless, Oikawa chooses to drink from one of the bottles, unscrewing the cap slowly. He can’t let Ushijima notice his fuzzy motor skills. “Are you cutting me off?”

Ushijima doesn’t look at him. Instead, he swirls his glass, letting the single cube of melting ice bob in the dark liquid before responding, “You know you can’t drink like this once practice starts.”

Of course he knows that. Oikawa isn’t fucking _stupid_. He knows more than anyone that he can’t be this self-destructive forever, can’t run away forever. But he can’t expect Ushijima Wakatoshi of all people to understand him. What did he know about heartbreak anyway?

“Why are you pretending like this is normal?” Oikawa cuts in and narrows his eyes towards Ushijima, squeezing the water bottle in his hand, letting droplets fall over his fist and catch the reflection of the flashing lights. This is absurd; meeting his future teammate at a dive bar in Ni-chome of all places.

Ushijima gives the smallest hint of a shrug, “You didn’t seem like you wanted me to ask.”

It was true, Oikawa admits to himself. It’s not like he was going to confide in Ushijima of all people. “Then I’ll ask why you’re here.”

“Does it matter?” Ushijima’s reply is deep, smooth like the booze in his glass, somehow managing to be audible over the pulsing music. The sharp scent of whiskey accompanied his words, escaping from his lips and filling the nominal space between the pair.

Oikawa thinks for a second, shifting his eyes away. “Guess not.”

The shorter male runs his fingers through his hair, letting a self-deprecating smile leak onto his lips. His body slides down inches in his seat, leaning his head back further against the wall, “You must think I’m pretty pathetic."

Ushijima sets his glass down and leans his chin down onto his palm, elbow resting on the table. “Since when do you care what I think?”

 _He’s right_ , Oikawa thinks to himself with a wry smile. But it’s almost annoying how calm Ushijima is, how he’s _always_ been. Most people he knew would be demanding answers upon seeing him drinking alone in a seedy gay bar. Iwaizumi sure would demand answers; who knows, maybe he’d be so disgusted with Oikawa he’d kick them out of their apartment. With Ushijima dodging his question, Oikawa can only assume Ushijima was at this bar for the same reason most other patrons were: to hook up, or at least be out of the closet in peace.

“Does the league know about this?” Oikawa doesn’t have to explain what “this” means.

“Who says they don’t?” responds Ushijima, his tone cool and unashamed.

Oikawa finds himself nodding in acknowledgment. Comforting to know, at least, that if his orientation got out to volleyball officials, he could depend on discretion. It wasn’t surprising that Ushijima got a pass on any personal exploits, though, with his talent.

Once the first of of the water bottles was drained, Oikawa grabs the second, choosing to keep it between his palms to cool him off rather than immediately opening it. It’s pretty ridiculous; he came to this bar to escape Iwa-chan’s prying eyes and doting, and somehow found himself being pathetically nursed by his former rival.

Still, he can’t help but notice again how much Ushijima doesn’t fit in here. He’s tall, imposing, intimidating even while seated. His drink is simple, not mixed or sweetened like most other orders the bartender surely usually gets. Ushijima’s expression is as quiet as usual, enhanced by the shades and the erratic lighting, and Oikawa wonders if he looks as serious when he himself people watches.

The buzzed setter should ask Ushijima more questions, should find out more information and settle some of his uneasiness. Has Ushijima come here before? Often? Did he know Oikawa would be here? Was he going to university in Tokyo? Was he just visiting a relative? No, he’s on the Olympic team based in Tokyo, no way he could commute once practice started. Still, he knows he should ask more questions.

But he doesn’t. Oikawa just lets the relative conversational dead zone hover in the space between them. This close, he can feel the warmth radiating from the larger body next to him, can detect an even stronger aroma of whiskey mixed with Ushijima’s cologne. Cologne? Oikawa confirms his suspicions, or at least makes a few assumptions: Ushijima had purposefully put on cologne, and he’d arrived by himself, so perhaps he _was_ looking for a hookup.

 _Well, too bad for him that he ended up babysitting me_ , Oikawa smirks. Still, with this train of thought, Oikawa was now confronted with the mental image of Ushijima bringing home a partner to bed. Or maybe even going home with a partner. Oikawa shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his cheek on his hand, elbow sliding onto the table as he allows his brain to wander. What kind of partner would Ushijima be looking for? He definitely didn’t seem like the type to enjoy being thrown around, but Oikawa has been wrong about people before. Would Ushijima’s type be like the host Oikawa had let seduce him that one night?

Oh yeah. _That_ night.

For a split second, for the length of one short breath that Oikawa catches in his throat, he wonders what Iwaizumi is doing. Wonders if Iwaizumi is getting lucky tonight, if his room in their apartment would be occupied by another warm body.  He wonders if Iwaizumi would bite, if he would treat her gently, or ravage her with passion. Oikawa imagines that Iwaizumi would be gentle; he was hot headed but was surprisingly perceptive when it came to matters other than his setter’s romantic feelings.  She seems like a nice, proper girl, but Oikawa can’t help but imagine Iwaizumi’s trained, calloused hands over soft, feminine skin. Vivid images of long black hair on Iwaizumi’s bed taint his thoughts like ink spreading across a pond.

But he shoves it down, as if it was bile, swallowing his grief down back where it belongs.

“...So are you here looking for a one night stand, Ushiwaka?” Oikawa lashes out, half serious, half joking. If Ushijima picks up on Oikawa’s hint of malice, the bite in his words, the larger male doesn’t seem to let it on. Only then does he notice Ushijima’s attention, gold eyes staring into his auburn ones with an emotion Oikawa might actually confuse with _concern_.

“No.” The wing spiker turns his shoulders to lean closer to the setter. “Does that surprise you?”

Oikawa ponders and bites his lip; it’s sweet and sour, remnants of his drink not fully washed away from the water, “Not really. I always assumed you were a virgin.”

Ushijima raises a thick eyebrow at Oikawa’s mock nonchalance. “Do I give off that impression?”

“Well, it’s kind of difficult to imagine a robot getting fucked,” Oikawa lets vulgar words spill out unfiltered, his shoulders sagging with the weight of inebriation. He keeps half lidded eyes locked on Ushijima’s face, searching the larger male’s expression for even the smallest touch of shame, hoping that his provocation seeps into Ushijima’s skin.

Instead, he’s met with the sensation of an unexpected hand reaching up to his jaw, tracing up his jawbone. Oikawa almost shivers at the contact, as Ushijima’s hand is cold from the drink he’d been nursing, but his grip is _just_ forceful enough to remind Oikawa of the power in his upper body, power Oikawa of all people _knew_ he possessed. The booth they’re in begins to feel impossibly crowded, and Oikawa picks up on the spicy scent of whiskey from Ushijima’s breath, picks up on the shadow of darkness hidden in gold that is so impossibly close. Ushijima’s thick, rough fingers squeeze against Oikawa’s pretty face, sliding up cheeks reddened with something he can’t quite blame on the alcohol anymore. The setter’s breath heaves out in uneven gusts when he feels Ushijima sliding a thumb into Oikawa’s mouth.

Ushijima’s thumb has the bitter taste of stinging, unmixed alcohol and is absolutely freezing against the warm, wet muscle of Oikawa’s tongue. Before the setter can attempt to back away, another hand is solid on the back of his head, keeping him in place as a gentle reminder of Ushijima’s forethought, a reminder that he can read Oikawa’s movements with ease. But it begs the question to Oikawa’s deductive reasoning, his mind immediately jumping to imagine what this reminder feels like when it’s _not_ so gentle, and it almost causes a tremor to shake his tipsy body. Thick warmth pools in Oikawa’s abdomen, and at first he thinks, rather _hopes_ it’s the booze, but then the heat shoots lower, past his stomach and into his groin. Ushijima’s thumb explores deeper in Oikawa’s mouth, the larger male seemingly unaffected by the saliva leaking around his digits gripped around the setter’s jaw. This close, Oikawa can see the intense focus Ushijima was pushing onto him, the feeling of a large frame beginning to draw even closer to his long legs under the table. Oikawa feels the rustle of unexpected desire in his jeans, compelling him to spread his knees just half an inch. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Ushijima, whose eagle-like eyes seem to always catch the most minuscule of movements. With the tables thoroughly turned and the blush of aroused humiliation flushing his cheeks, Oikawa realizes he really should have expected this; he’s never been able to hide anything from this ace.      

“‘Robots’ like me don’t get fucked. You have it quite backwards, Oikawa.” Ushijima’s voice cuts in as cold as his fingers on Oikawa’s cheeks, allowing the heavy implication to fully seep into the shorter man’s ears. And it sinks so _deep_ , somehow drowning out the music behind them in the bar, narrowing Oikawa’s field of attention to the two of them on this tattered seat. A startled choke rises up in the pale expanse of Oikawa’s constricting throat, saliva pooling in his mouth and hindering his breathing. Only then does Ushijima let go with an obscenely wet slip, allowing the setter to collapse against the wall behind their seat in a fit of very unmanly gasps. Oikawa licks the inside of his teeth, catching the remnants of Ushijima’s taste, and red-brown orbs lid in consternation up towards the taller male.

Bringing the sleeve of his jacket up to his reddened lips, Oikawa wipes away the saliva that has dripped out. A raspy cough wracks his shoulders, but he immediately catches his breath because he just can’t let on how much this affected him. It’s jarring, and Oikawa would be lying if he said he doesn’t attempt to picture what kind of top Ushijima is, how deep he goes, how many marks does he leave, how does he use the raw power in that dangerous left hand. He may be gay as hell but this wasn’t what he had in mind, not with _him_ ; Ushijima was supposed an asexual entity, so much so that Oikawa doubted that the Ushijima clan reproduced sexually. The setter was now being forced to confront his preconceived notions.

“What was that for?” Oikawa spits out, the back of his hand still wiping moisture from his jaw. The heat is still accumulated deep in his insides, searing through most of his rational thought.  

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” The deep gravel of Ushijima’s voice mocks him in the darkness of the bar as he still hovers so irritatingly close. Oikawa almost wishes Ushijima would laugh at him, insult him, dig into Oikawa’s insecurities he _knows_ Ushijima is privy to, anything but his current cold demeanor.  Instead, Ushijima merely observes, as stoic as ever...but Oikawa can see the rise of a broad chest in a navy button up, exertion that alerts the setter that he wasn’t the only one affected by this.

Ushijima’s confession hovers inside Oikawa’s thoughts, somehow allowing him to push out thoughts of his heartbreak. It shocks him, to know that Ushijima was such a forceful partner, placing more passion in a heated moment of fucking his mouth with a thumb than any girl had shown Oikawa during his high school exploits. He’d caught the smallest taste of it when he’d been sucked off by that host, but this is so much more _intense_ , just enough to dull the pain of Iwaizumi’s implicit rejection, acting as a soothing salve to his still raw anguish. This gives Oikawa an idea. A very bad, no good, _very_ fun idea. An idea that gives him a fresh direction for his self-destructive tendencies, without the sickness alcohol provided. Maybe it’s the booze, perhaps it’s the fact that he’s pent up, but judging by Ushijima’s dilated pupils and subtle clenching of his fists, as if they were antsy for something to grip and _punish_ , Oikawa wasn’t the only one with an idea.

This might work. It might not. But even though Oikawa is generally a hyper-logical person on the court, he’s never pretended that he could hold back impulsive, emotional tendencies, particularly when his dormant anxiety had a reason to well up. And this was definitely a reason, possibly the most traumatizing one he’d experienced so far. He could cope with losing in volleyball, but he never wanted to cope with losing Iwa-chan.

But again, this might work. Or it might ignite in a bonfire of misery and Bad Decisions, but the arousal pushing towards the zipper in his pants and the blood rushing between his ears tell Oikawa that it might be worth the risk. What did he have to lose? After all, his relationship with Ushijima has been nothing but strained and downright painful, filled with loss and the brutal reminders Ushijima was always so glad to offer. Maybe he was a great target for this; Ushijima wouldn’t catch feelings. And even if he does, it wasn’t as if Oikawa wouldn’t delight in hurting Ushijima and throwing it in his face.

Either way, he’ll never know if he doesn’t try.

“Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa’s voice is shaky, uneven with scheming and breathy arousal.  “Are you sure you’re not looking for a one night stand?”

Oikawa watches  gold eyes narrow, dark pupils focusing on him. The shorter male allows his body to slink further down in the seat, lets his knee deliberately brush Ushijima’s thigh. But make no mistake: this was no gesture of affection, nor an invitation of love. It’s a direct challenge, a touch brimming with conflict and perhaps even a touch of hatred. Judging by the way Ushijima’s teeth grind in his mouth, Oikawa knows that Ushijima understands his wicked intentions completely. Ushijima is a bad idea, Oikawa _knows_ this. Knows that he is basically spitting in the face of his former team, particularly Iwaizumi by getting involved with Ushijima, but he would be lying if that didn’t entice him further.

Besides, it’s not as if Oikawa isn’t a bad idea himself.

It’s telling that Ushijima is silent; Oikawa can see himself in Ushijima’s gaze, can see him analyzing the setter for drunkenness, and more importantly, intentions. Ushijima isn't known for his social skills, but he isn’t stupid.  

“I’m not looking for a one night stand,” Ushijima replies, finally leaning back, folding muscular forearms across his chest.         

Oikawa then gives a laugh, high pitched and light hearted before standing up. Ushijima watches carefully as Oikawa leans over and places a hand on the table in front of Ushijima’s laid back form. “I guess I’ll take my leave, Ushiwaka-chan.  There’s an alley out back that should get me where I need to go.” Auburn eyes narrow in mischief and intoxication when Oikawa leans down even further, so close to the wing spiker’s face that he can even hear the setter’s next whisper. “I wonder if the bartender even knows about it.”

Raising his chin to look up at Oikawa, the ace keeps his arms folded. He could focus on the brunet’s face, his well-trained shoulders, the sliver of his abs making a sly appearance from a shirt that was riding up. But he doesn’t. He focuses on still-swollen lips that were upturned in a smile, probably one of the first he’d received from Oikawa.

The memory of the heat of Oikawa’s mouth is still _very_ fresh on his fingers, and if the bar was any less dark, Ushijima was sure he’d be able to see a telltale bulge in Oikawa’s jeans.  Leaning so close and with pink wet lips and flushed cheeks and heavily lidded eyes through long eyelashes, Oikawa manages to appear like the embodiment of sin, prepared to drag Ushijima down into Hell. The fabric of his morals had already begun to fray from the moment he chose to sit next to Oikawa. Ushijima could ask for details, could wonder why Oikawa was being so uncharacteristically wanton, why Oikawa was even drinking alone, who he was _running_ from, but a voice in the back of his head reminds him.

_Only lies need details._

A moment passes without reply from Ushijima. Oikawa is the first to break their gaze, his eyes softening in something Ushijima might mistake for disappointment if he didn’t know any better; the ace could tell when he was being mocked. Ushijima keeps his eyes on Oikawa’s back when the setter turns around, making way towards the back of the bar, where Ushijima assumes a certain back alley was hiding.

"Oikawa." The setter feels a heated grip on his bicep, halting him in his tracks.

Ushijima's look is scolding, almost reprimanding Oikawa for his suggestion, telling the setter that the he knew exactly what Oikawa was hoping for in that back alleyway.

But before Oikawa can protest, Ushijima pulls him closer, hand still clenched on the shorter male's arm. Heat surges up Oikawa’s arm, searing him through his sleeve and adding to the pulsing arousal straining in his pants and he just knows that Ushijima notices the rapid exhale, bordering on a moan, that escapes his lips.  Ushijima’s next words are deep, dripping with authoritative demand that begs no argument.   

"I live alone."

And so, it begins.

 

 


	2. Venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW TAGS, HO HO HO
> 
> seriously go check the tags if there's anything you absolutely can't handle. This isn't super crazy but I did add some tags some people might find relevant.
> 
> soooo this is pretty shameless, ngl. I wrote this after I heard "The Good, The Bad And the Dirty" from Panic and the disco and I regret nothing.
> 
> I will say if you are a stickler for healthy relationships or safe sex or even 100% consensual sex acts then leave now because this has pain and horrible BDSM etiquette

Oikawa barely remembers the taxi ride, the crushing grip on his thigh in the back seat, or even Ushijima downing the rest of his drink in one take before they left. The glaring lights of the city that eventually yield to the soft light of an apartment building. All Oikawa can take in is a hand pulling his bicep up a flight of stairs. Or maybe two flights. Or three. His motor skills aren’t _completely_ shot, but they sure as hell aren’t completely functional, and it’s even harder to walk when his pants are tight and his head is so, so full of horrible ideas. He knows who he’s with; he’s drunk, not ignorant, and he simply doesn’t care. Well, that’s not completely accurate. Oikawa _does_ care. He cares a great deal. He cares about how his self-pity is now transformed into something a bit more sinister, how well his arousal is able to mask his pathetic pining for _someone_ he cannot ever have. Right now, he doesn’t care about the faces of his former teammates if they should ever find out where he’s going, all he’s concerned about is if Ushijima can lend him some cruelty that he can use to suffocate his misery.

Oikawa Tooru isn't small. He's not dainty, or tiny, or delicate, or any other pretty words you might use to describe a meek, unassuming body. His body is trained, lean muscle yielding to smooth sinew across a well developed frame of over 184 cm. His chest is sculpted with taut pectoral muscles and shoulders that serve deadly attacks to even the most well practiced of defenders, and his legs are long and defined, and _powerful_.

This is why when Ushijima just _drags_ him by the collar through a door Oikawa assumes belongs to the ace’s apartment, he can’t help but gasp, shock turning into a flutter of arousal that makes his knees weak at the way Ushijima is just able to throw him around like a ragdoll. The setter would mistake it for anger if he didn’t know any better, but he does know better, and he displays no fear when he grins at Ushijima’s face in the darkness. In an instant, his back is shoved against the wall of a hallway barely lit by a lamp that must have been in another room, and Oikawa feels a solid knee come up between his legs, detects Ushijima’s hard torso flush against his.

“This a good enough alleyway for you?” Ushijima’s question is a hot, whiskey-tainted breath at his ear, and it’s then that Oikawa realizes that Ushijima _can_ give him what he needs, treat him like the slut he wanted to be in that back alley. He doesn’t even care if it’s genuine or not, whether Ushijima actually thinks this little of him, all that matters is if he can play the part.

“Show me it is,” taunts Oikawa, letting a pink tongue dart out to lick at the side of Ushijima’s neck, and he feels the wing spiker stiffen and grind even harder against his groin.

Oikawa had never really thought too much about whether he was a pitcher or a catcher. Sure, his fantasies with Iwa-chan usually ended with his ass clenching around fingers he pretended were thicker and more calloused than his, but he wouldn't have turned away any option with Iwaizumi. His brain seemingly didn’t allow him to fantasize much about the specifics, maybe to protect him from dreaming too far about the impossible. It's not like this, where the bruising grip around his waist and the _impossibly_ thick bulge pressing between his legs indicate exactly what Oikawa’s role is tonight. There’s no mistaking the intentions of the man in front of him, no way to misinterpret the pressure of thick fingers hungrily shoving up Oikawa’s shirt and running up his flushed skin.

Alcohol and the shadows of Ushijima's dim hallway have turned Oikawa’s vision hazy, but he still sees Ushijima moving even closer to his face. He realizes what Ushijima is aiming for and he turns his head sharply, causing the larger man to pull away in hesitation. Intense eyes stare into the side of Oikawa's face, and though Oikawa can't see much, he can sense a touch of confusion in Ushijima’s features.

"No-" the setter's voice rasps out, "...not that."

Oikawa doesn’t need to clarify exactly what he meant. At least, he gets that impression when two rough arms reach onto his shoulders and rotate Oikawa until he's pushed face first into the smooth surface of the wall. His cheek stings with the sudden impact, his breath heaving out onto the wall in wet gasps, cool air whispering at his half-exposed torso.  Suddenly, Ushijima’s hand is pressed against the pale valley of his straining shoulder blades, keeping him thoroughly pinned. When Oikawa detects Ushijima’s broad chest pressed against his back, feels teeth sink into the sensitive flesh of his neck, he can’t help but let out a cross between a laugh and a whimper between his lips. A warm tongue bathes his collar as Ushijima sucks hard, leaving bouquets of burst blood vessels in his wake. The sensation immediately shoots down to Oikawa’s dick, and Oikawa could almost see the red angry tip of his own erection that was demanding to be freed.

Ushijima’s cock is fully hardened as well, and once it’s grinding against the setter’s ass, Oikawa is forced to realize just how endowed this man must be for Oikawa to be able to feel this much while clothed. Yet his arousal doesn’t falter in the slightest; in fact, the idea of being torn apart and absolutely _destroyed_ makes his glassy eyes roll back, forces saliva to leak out of open lips and onto the wall. He doesn’t remember when he became this perverted, this wanton, but all he cares about in this moment is being thoroughly abused until he hurts so badly he can’t even remember Iwaizumi Hajime’s name.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima calls out his name with a deep murmur, and the smaller male feels it reverberate against the skin on the back of his neck. “I need you to be sure.” This time, _real_ concern echoed in his voice and it almost makes Oikawa nauseous.

Oikawa lets out a genuine laugh that doesn’t match the pit of anxious anticipation in his stomach. It’s a wet laugh slightly muffled by the acoustics of the wall he’s pressed against, high pitched with the delirium of arousal. Maybe this was Ushijima’s way of cautioning Oikawa. Or perhaps Ushijima is afraid to use Oikawa like he needs him to, and this is his way of worrying. Either way, Oikawa knows that this is the last chance to opt out, the final contract sealing his fate in this apartment if he doesn’t escape.

Like Oikawa even gives a shit.

“Just mess me up, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa pleads in a tender voice anyone but Ushijima would assume to be begging, but the ace knows Oikawa isn’t desperate, he’s _demanding_ , no different from an order a captain would place on the court.

Ushijima probably should ask what was wrong, should try to decipher what was clearly tugging raw at Oikawa’s thoughts, what’s causing the red edges of Oikawa’s auburn eyes to well up, but it’s so much better that he _doesn’t_ , so much more comforting that he is allowing Oikawa to drag him down into degeneracy. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Ushijima also doesn’t ask if he’s a virgin with other men, and Oikawa doesn’t feel the need to ask him that either; he can obviously tell someone gave this block-headed man experience with men, his confession at the bar unnecessary. Oikawa wonders if it was that setter that always followed Ushijima around, or maybe it was a random encounter at a bar, or maybe an older man, but ultimately it doesn’t matter.

Nothing does, anymore.

Oikawa signals his confirmation by pressing his ass out, pushing against the pulsing erection in Ushijima’s pants in a devious attempt to keep Ushijima from noticing his instability. He responds with a low, barely audible growl, and lets barely half a second pass before reaching down to make quick work of Oikawa’s pants and boxers, shoving them down to his knees, and it’s so, _so_ dirty and rushed, knowing he can’t be bothered to fully undress him, and it sends a shiver up the setter’s spine. When Oikawa’s hard cock hits the air of the hallway, he isn’t even able to attempt to relieve himself before an oversized hand wraps around the shaft. He can’t even help but whimper, pride be damned, the heat of finally being touched like this causing pleasure to surge through his body. Ushijima’s hand is roughened by years of grueling athletics practice, and he’s not gentle at all when he strokes the swollen red tip with the same thumb that had already been in Oikawa’s mouth, spreading the copious precum that had clearly been accumulating since before they’d left the bar. His touch is forceful, _masculine_ , contrasting heavily with the feminine hands Oikawa had experienced before and it just dances the edge of what he really needs.

“F-fuck,” Oikawa moans, but his voice is cut off when Ushijima’s unoccupied hand travels up to Oikawa’s jaw. His face is already tender from the pain of being pressed against the wall, so he can’t help but yelp when his jaw is forced back at a punishing angle, can’t stifle the raspy choke when three thick fingers shove between his lips and invade his drooling mouth.  

This time, it’s _so_ much different than the incident at the bar; his mouth is overwhelmed, saliva dripping down his chin and soaking the digits in his mouth. Oikawa runs his tongue across the pads of Ushijima’s fingers, and he delights in hearing the pleased groan from their owner. It’s impossibly difficult to focus when his dick is leaking profusely in Ushijima’s skilled grasp, but his clouded mind knows it’s not enough. He needs it to hurt, needs to show Ushijima that he doesn’t need any of this bullshit tenderness he could get from a high school girl. To get the message across, Oikawa begins to sink his canines into the flesh near Ushijima’s knuckles with just enough vindictive force to break the skin to remind Ushijima why he’s here and he _better_ fulfill his part of this deal.

It’s then that Ushijima feels the sharp sting of teeth on his fingers, can tell he’s leaking a bit of blood inside Oikawa’s mouth, but he simply doesn’t care. He gets the message though, and shoves the tips of his fingers deep into Oikawa’s mouth, as far as they can go. The pad of his middle finger grazes Oikawa’s fleshy uvula and at this point Oikawa is openly choking and leaking saliva all over the intruding fingers, and Ushijima might be worried if Oikawa wasn’t practically humping his other hand.

If Oikawa could smile, he would.

“Don’t _provoke_ me,” a deep growl comes from behind Oikawa’s reddened ear and is accompanied by a thrust of Ushijima’s hips. “I don’t want to send you to the hospital.”

This time, Oikawa gets the message and he’s _already_ a shaking, trembling mess, but the idea of Ushijima actually injuring him enough to require medical attention makes him leak even more precum over Ushijima’s fist. It forces his eyes to lid, compels a whine that’s suffocated by Ushijima’s sopping wet fingers. Oikawa isn’t quite sure that’s healthy, but there’s no time for that, not when he’s so close to shooting his cum all over this unfamiliar wall. He knows there’s no way he would have ever been able to ask Iwaizumi to do this, to utterly destroy him until eyes gloss over in self destructive pleasure.

Ushijima has always seemed to be able to read Oikawa’s weaknesses, and this is no exception. Sharp senses take note of Oikawa’s shallow breathing, the throbbing in his palm, the way the smaller male’s throat constricts around his fingers. He can tell Oikawa is close, but no, that isn’t supposed to happen yet.

A wet cough splutters from Oikawa’s throat when Ushijima withdraws his fingers and a frustrated whine fills the air between them as Oikawa feels the hand around his cock disappear. When the setter looks back, Ushijima can see that Oikawa’s cheeks are red with the force his hand left, damp with saliva and what may or may not be actual tears. But his eyes are filled with drunken mirth, clouded over with pleasure. Oikawa knows he’s a mess, knows his knees are trembling with effort to stay up, but that doesn’t stop him from opening his abused mouth in an attempt to argue, to scold Ushijima for not giving him the cruelty he needs.

If it lets up for even a second, thoughts of Iwaizumi might surface again and he _can’t_ have that.

“Ushiw-”

His outcry is promptly stifled when his torso and face are pinned against the wall again, Ushijima’s hand that had been on the setter’s dick pressing deep into tense shoulder blades. Oikawa feels the dampness of something he can only assume is his own fluids coating Ushijima’s fingers as it soaks through his clothes.

“ _Don’t_.” is all Ushijima says, a heavy warning from behind Oikawa’s head.

In this position, Oikawa can’t see much, can only display himself for Ushijima to use. Which is why when Oikawa feels two saliva-soaked fingers at his entrance, it finally hits him how truly exposed he is, how submissive and slutty and just completely at Ushijima’s mercy he is _._ Oikawa knows this sensation from when he’s spent nights alone, knows the stretch of firm fingers breaching the tight muscle of his asshole, but this is so different, strange, and downright _filthy_ , not at all what he expected when he’d thought of Ushijima Wakatoshi back in high school.

What’s also different is the pain; the pain starts at his ass and radiates up his spine, and it’s disheartening to realize that Ushijima’s fingers aren’t even all the way inside of him yet. The overpowering sound of blood pumping between his ears almost drowns out the sound of his own rigid breathing against the wall, and it only gets louder as Ushijima forcefully stretches out the tight ring around his fingers. Oikawa feels the pads of determined fingers exploring his insides, curling inside him as if searching for something between pumps and all Oikawa can do is just let him do exactly what he wants.

An impatient mewl squeezes out of Oikawa's mouth as he tries to ignore the burning stretch of two fingers inside of him, reaching farther than he'd ever been inside himself, and he struggles against the hand keeping him pinned against the wall when he starts to get used to the pain. He needs more, needs to cry, needs to be thoroughly broken into a million fucking pieces or else he knows his thoughts will flash with images of Iwaizumi, what Iwaizumi was doing, who he was with, who he might be _fucking-_

"More," Oikawa grits out, a low growl rumbling through his throat. "I can take _more_."  But Oikawa's eyes clench shut as if he knows he's not even sure if he's being truthful. Ushijima notices and buries his two digits down to the knuckle, making Oikawa whimper in pain.

"No," Ushijima replies with no hint of shame in voice, as if he wasn't stretching out a new teammate's virgin insides. “Not _yet_.”

Before Oikawa can protest, to attempt to reprimand Ushijima, he suddenly sees stars behind his eyes when Ushijima’s fingers push into _something_ inside of him. A wet yelp accompanies frantic tremors in his hips and a jolt to his neglected erection and he wonders how the fuck Ushijima did that and god damn can he do it _again?_ Precum flows from the head of his swollen cockhead and drips onto the hardwood floor as he pushes back on the fingers, and he is so fucking close to cumming he can’t help but let out a series of humiliating whines as his ass tenses up around the intrusion. Pleasure rushes through Oikawa’s body, blurs his already hazy vision, and completely overtakes his senses, threatening to claim his consciousness and his endurance. He pushes his head back, the only part of his body he thinks he might still have some semblance of control over, and Ushijima just knows, can tell that he’s going to shatter into pieces if he continues.    

"I know I just hit something nice, but you can’t quit yet," Ushijima whispers in Oikawa’s ear, low and quiet, while he halts his ministrations inside of the setter. Oikawa can hear the urgency in the wing spiker’s uneven breath, but more importantly he can feel it in the ache of the bruises Ushijima is leaving behind, in the painful stretch of his shoulder blades.

Ushijima appears to be studying Oikawa’s body, and decides to make an executive decision. “You’re not wet enough,” he states, seemingly speaking to no one in particular.

Oikawa is taken by surprise when he feels the hand on his shoulder blades retreat to somewhere he can’t see, but it doesn’t compare to the shock that wells up inside him when he notices Ushijima’s weight kneeling on the floor behind him, feels two hands caressing and spreading his ass, because it might mean, it could be-

 _-oh fuck it is_.

Ushijima brings his face to Oikawa’s reddened asshole, not bothering with formalities, though Oikawa isn’t even sure any kind of formality could have prepared him for this completely foreign sensation.

“ _Ushijima-_ ” Oikawa can’t even try to stop the high pitch that’s spreading into his moans when he feels a wet muscle stroking the tender flesh of his rim, and he _knows_ it’s not a finger but fuck that doesn’t make his thoughts any more coherent. Ushijima’s tongue is solid yet perfectly pliable, tracing saliva around the previously stretched entrance. Oikawa wants to resist, wants to growl at Ushijima to _get on with it_ , but any requests are drowned out when the heat lapping at his entrance is suddenly inside, flames stroking up his walls as Ushijima’s tongue tastes impossibly deep.

At this point, Oikawa can’t help but produce a full body tremor, and now Ushijima has to use his hands on the ass in front of him to keep Oikawa upright still. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop Oikawa from squirming, shifting his knees in a futile attempt at struggle as his legs are still caught in the denim cage of his pants, so all that’s left is for Oikawa to just accept Ushijima’s tongue exploring his walls. He never expected this, isn’t sure he’d ever had a masturbatory fantasy that included _this_ , but now knows he has to add this heated sensation of being spread open by a persistent tongue in his next self-indulgent episode. Oikawa knows his cock is leaking, can feel his hair sticking to the back of his neck and to his forehead, can sense the drip of sweat traveling down his abs, can feel a multitude of other things but they’re completely dominated by the pressure of Ushijima’s fingertips gripping his ass, spreading the setter so he can reach even deeper, spread saliva as far as he can push his determined tongue.

“Fuck...I... _Ushijima_ -” Oikawa’s voice is reduced to hoarse panting, his back pressing against Ushijima in an arc of desire, and he would feel pathetic but currently the only thing he can feel is the intensity of Ushijima’s tongue stroking his soft insides, coaxing him open. It’s searing, the delicious heat just making his eyelids flutter, and it’s almost unraveling him enough to make him forget exactly why he followed Ushijima here, why he let himself be bent over against this wall like an animal in heat.

Oikawa doesn’t have to say much. More accurately, he doesn’t have it in him to say much, but that doesn’t stop him from letting his voice drip with an urgent order, infusing it with every last bit of hatred he has left.

“Make me bleed, Ushijima.”

Ushijima groans at Oikawa’s flagrant provocation, and the setter lets out a soft cry when he feels the vibration against his hole. The relatively cool air in the hallway brushes Oikawa’s sticky wet entrance in the absence of Ushijima’s tongue, and it stings, making Oikawa almost cry out for more contact because now he feels so god damned empty and the longer he spends empty, the closer Iwaizumi creeps into his field of vision.

“This is going to hurt you, Oikawa,” Ushijima informs him with an almost cruel indifference, and Oikawa doesn’t have to wonder what ‘this’ is when he hears the telltale sound of a zipper from behind him.  A blunt, hot hardness falls against Oikawa’s asscheeks and it makes his stomach flip in anticipation, forces a bead of precum to fall from the head of his cockhead onto the floor again.

“I didn’t ask for a fucking warning, Ushiw-”

Oikawa doesn’t see Ushijima line up behind him; he doesn’t see the way the fat head of Ushijima’s dick begins to spread the soaked bud between Oikawa’s asscheeks, isn’t able to catch the lid of Ushijima’s golden eyes, or even hear the hushed exhale of pleasure that comes from Ushijima’s throat when he presses inside and mounts his future setter. The sting is instantaneous, so much worse than the fingers, and Oikawa cries out and throws his head back with what little strength he has left. Delirious pleasure spikes through his abdomen as his insides desperately seize around the intrusion and stroke the hardness tearing apart his insides. Or maybe it’s pain. Pain or pleasure, it doesn’t matter. Pain is inevitable, a safe bet when something this large is stretching out such a narrow space, but it _really_ doesn’t matter. With this, he can completely erase anything else from his thoughts, maybe even his own _name_ , and he fucking loves it.  

It’s only now that Ushijima finally shows signs of losing his cool, the edges of his features turned into a hungry expression of arousal, golden eyes with pupils blown wide. Oikawa can feel hot breath against the back of his perspiring neck and he delights in finally cracking the surface to reveal something he _knows_ is inside the wing spiker.

If Ushijima is concerned for Oikawa’s well-being, he’s not showing it; his thrusts are punishing, his grip crushing on Oikawa’s hips. He doesn’t give the setter a chance to catch his breath, rutting into Oikawa’s tight heat with such brutality that bruises are guaranteed. This idea only incenses the wing spiker further, his cock swelling even more at the image of Oikawa wearing black and blue memories of exactly how deep Ushijima reaches inside of him. He can tell by the desperate heaving in Oikawa’s chest and the tears threatening to fall from Oikawa’s wide eyes that he’s stretched impossibly wide. Ushijima halts his thrusts, pausing to leave himself buried balls deep inside of Oikawa’s asshole, and it earns him a choked gasp from the setter. He chooses to let his erection just throb in Oikawa’s passage, and he removes a hand from Oikawa’s trembling hip to press a thumb against the puffy, stretched rim he was occupying. His thumb strokes the sensitive flesh, admiring the sporadic clenching of the tight muscle around the base of his cock, allowing himself to spurt more precum into Oikawa’s already wet insides.

Part of him should be concerned, but he’s really _not_ , and it’s only because he _knows_ how strong Oikawa truly is. An outsider might assume Ushijima is utterly degrading Oikawa in the worst fashion, and they wouldn’t be completely wrong, but they wouldn’t be correct, either, because Ushijima respects him more than he’ll ever let Oikawa know. He knows, possibly more than anyone, how it’ll take so much more to actually break Oikawa, to make him cry out and beg to stop, to say it’s too much.

It doesn’t mean Ushijima isn’t going to try.  

When Ushijima resumes his thrusting, continuing to fuck Oikawa's body with brutal fervor, Oikawa realizes there really is no one else that could do this for him. No one else that could package such cruelty, discretion, and humiliation in one person. No one else that could fuck him within an inch of insanity, just abuse him until he can finally give his heart a desperately needed reprieve from Iwaizumi's rejection.

Staccato cries filled the space in the hallway, echoing off of the wall in front of Oikawa's mouth, and he's trying so hard to keep his voice down but it's just not fucking working. Joining Oikawa’s voice is the vulgar slap of the two males’ hips that almost drowns out the subtle grunt of effort from Ushijima, the panting in Oikawa’s ear. The stretch is wide, and Ushijima’s cock is thick, pressing Oikawa’s entrance to unbelievable width. A trickle of something Oikawa knows in his deepest thoughts might be blood leaks down his thigh but he delights in the pain. He probably should be thinking of how he’s going to feel tomorrow, how there’s no way he’ll be able to hide his tenderness from Iwaizumi, but right now the pain is the only thing keeping him from dwelling on what he can’t have. Or rather, who.

“You’re perfect,” Ushijima pauses his thrusts to make sure his words sink into Oikawa’s mind.

Ushijima has always been one of Oikawa’s weaknesses. On the court, it was a given that Ushijima always seemed to have the upper hand over him, but this isn’t much different, and Oikawa finds it impossible for tears to keep from falling. He’s in pain, his cock is rock hard, but his heart almost starts to fucking hurt at Ushijima’s praise, as if his self-esteem has been so low it was thirsty for even the slightest indication that he wasn’t worth throwing away.

That maybe Iwaizumi shouldn’t have thrown him away.

Now Oikawa is grateful for this position away from Ushijima’s face, so he can’t see the pained expression on his face that was tainted with shameful arousal. Ushijima’s cock is hitting that _something_ that his fingers pressed earlier and it’s torturous keeping his orgasm from spurting down his legs and joining the precum he’d been steadily dripping. The setter can feel each throb inside of him as Ushijima parts his guts to make way for his erection, and it makes his eyes roll back in his head, his tongue slip out in a lewd desperation.  It’s starting to feel like he just can’t hold on as long as he wants to, can’t draw out this numbing medication any longer than he’s able to.

Ushijima takes notice, but doesn’t reach a hand around to Oikawa’s neglected, bobbing member, instead just humps the shorter male slower but with excessive and pinpointed force, nailing the bundle of nerves he knew would make Oikawa lose it. And it’s working; Ushijima can tell how close Oikawa is getting by the twitch of insides around his cock, by the screams that are devolving into pained whimpers that are just on the border of begging.

It’s then that Ushijima decides to place his nail in the coffin, leaning over to Oikawa’s flushed ear. He inhales the scent of Oikawa’s aroused perspiration, the scent of soap, the scent of _Oikawa_ before nipping on the ear partially obscured by damp auburn hair, as if to make sure Oikawa is still paying attention to his voice. He knows what Oikawa wants. He knows what the setter needs, what he has been asking for this entire time, what he was possibly even asking for at the bar.

“Come all over my floor,” Ushijima edges out his demand low and deep, sinking balls deep into Oikawa. “Show me how much of a slut you can be for me.”

Oikawa can’t breathe. At least, it feels like that when his body seemingly forgoes all other functions and lets his orgasm well up and crash over him in crushing waves that flash spots in front of wide auburn eyes. White, pent up semen gushes from Oikawa’s swollen member, bobbing with each pump of viscous fluid that paints the wall and the hard floor under the pair.  His orgasm is almost painful, way overdue, and the pleasure surges through his entire shivering frame until every last drop is milked out of him by Ushijima’s cock stabbing at his prostate.

“Ushijima-!”  Oikawa cries out, panting and just fucking wailing in Ushijima’s grasp, his breath verging on the border of hyperventilation as he’s just utterly broken down.   

Ushijima utters a dark growl when Oikawa’s ass squeezes almost painfully tight on his cock and his labored breathing alerts Oikawa that the ace is cumming, _soon_ , but it doesn’t prepare him for what happens next.

He’s not sure anything could have.

The first spurt takes Oikawa on by surprise, and he’s only able to offer the slightest moan of “no, that’s, I-” before Ushijima is full on cumming inside the deepest parts of his ass. Oikawa experiences every pulse of Ushijima's red-hot semen on his insides, feels potent seed gushing forward to search for a womb that just isn’t there. He knows he shouldn't let Ushijima cum inside him, shouldn't let him make even more of a mess of him, knows that he can’t let Ushijima mate him like a bitch. Oikawa's hips struggle against Ushijima's frenzied grip, bucking at the unfamiliar heat spreading through his ass, the vicious throb of the cock inside him. An urgent growl escapes Ushijima's throat as he clenches even harder on the setter's squirming hips, holding Oikawa in place and not permitting bruised hips to move even an inch, forcing every spurt inside as a puffy rim squeezes tight on his base.

"You're going to take all of it, Oikawa," Ushijima's order comes out feral, his eyes screwed shut against Oikawa's back. The setter's knees threaten to give out with each moment of powerful hips grinding against his ass and it's just so _warm_ inside him, sending rushing heat to the already spent, overly sensitive dick between his legs. It's too much, too intimate, and he knows he should have expected it but it doesn't help in the slightest. At this point, Oikawa relaxes his muscles, lets Ushijima hold him up by the hips, allows every drop of cum to seep into his walls in an act of final, resigned submission.

When Ushijima finally pulls out, he gets a wild, brutish pleasure from watching Oikawa tremble and fall to the floor in his own cum, a pulse of satisfaction from watching Oikawa’s abused hole leak his seed down long pale legs that shine in the dim light. Still, he knows he has at least some kind of obligation, Oikawa’s wishes be damned, and he gently picks him up from the ground. Whether from exertion or the alcohol, Oikawa passes out.

 

 

When Oikawa comes to on Ushijima's couch, he can see the beginnings of a sunrise in the living room windows. He notices that he's been wiped clean, the dampness of water still lingering on his skin. He doesn’t notice the volleyball accolades on the wall, or even Ushijima’s tired form behind him in what Oikawa assumes is the kitchen. He has to get home. Oikawa can’t stay here, can’t let Ushijima think this is anything more than it is, can’t let _himself_ think this is anything more.

Even when he remembers who is waiting back at his own apartment.

“You can stay here if you want.” Ushijima offers from behind Oikawa, his arms folded across his chest.

No. He can’t.

Instead of answering, Oikawa just asks, “Do you have clothes that would fit me?”

While Oikawa is putting on a set of clothes of Ushijima's, as his clothes were irreparably damaged from foreplay and semen, the ace picks up Oikawa's discarded pants from the floor, and he receives a questioning look from the setter. Oikawa hears the sound of his belt clanking and the rustle of denim before Ushijima pulls out what appears to be Oikawa's phone. He unlocks it, and Oikawa watches as his fingers push against the keys.

"...What are you doing, Ushiwaka?" Oikawa inquires with a raised eyebrow, too tired to be able to put up much of a fight.

"I'm putting in my address and my number." Ushijima hands him the phone once he's done. "I told you I wasn't looking for a one night stand."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED~~~
> 
> apparently I shouldn't listen to hatesex playlists at 4AM because this comes out
> 
> whoops
> 
> also thank you for the comments/kudos/bookmarks <3 Ill see all of you guys in hell lol


	3. Escalation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just filth, pure filth
> 
> i have no excuse

The day, or rather morning, afterwards proves painful. At least, for Oikawa anyway. It probably doesn’t help that he _does_ hit the coffee table with his shin in the half darkness of the early hour. It definitely doesn’t help that his body is bruised, aching, and slightly bloody from what most people might assume to be a fistfight. His lip is caked with the burgundy stain of blood and his cheek is scraped from what Oikawa assumes is Ushijima’s wall.

For the first time, Oikawa doesn’t check for feminine heels in their doorway.

Sparse, dim sunlight creeps in through the blinds and Oikawa assumes it has to be about 6AM. A limp crumples his legs as he collapses on their couch in the living room as pain throbs between his temples, likely an after effect from the booze. The sun hurts his face, the pillows hurt his head, and the cushions even hurt his ass and goddamnit everything just _hurts_. When he lays down, the liquid warmth in his insides reminds him of the semen that’s probably leaking out against pants that aren’t his, and a shudder shakes his tender body. Ushijima had apparently wiped him down but internally he was still very full. A faint voice in his mind tells him he should get up and clean himself off, but his body is too weak, and it takes all of his energy just to stay balanced on the couch.

Before Oikawa can even begin to dwell on his actions, or even try to sleep, the light in the hallway turns on and the heavy shuffling of tired footsteps approaching fills his ears.

_Iwa-chan-_

Panic sets in, overwhelming the pain and propelling his muscles. Oikawa shoots up, or at least tries to, before falling over the edge of the couch, hitting his shoulder on that damned coffee table. His head throbs with the ache of such sudden movement and his shoulder stings. Weakened legs try and prop him up but to no avail. He can’t let Iwaizumi see him like this, he barely wanted to see Iwaizumi in general, much less in such a pathetic state. He can’t handle it if Iwaizumi isn’t alone, if a higher pitched voice pipes up with concern for him, can’t handle _her_ of all people looking down on him.

“What the fuck are you doing?...What _happened_ to you?” Iwaizumi’s gruff, sleep-tinted voice comes from above him. Iwaizumi’s face is furrowed with concern, dark eyes taking in his roommate’s disheveled and bruised state. He appears to be alone.

Before Oikawa can even lift his head or even register Iwaizumi’s questions, a warm hand grabs at his tender bicep, yanking him to his feet in a fluid motion. Iwaizumi is shirtless, only wearing pajama pants, and his skin is so heated and _familiar_ when he lets Oikawa lean on him. Oikawa’s a bit taller than Iwaizumi, but this isn’t the first time he’s been helped by his childhood friend like this, and he’d be lying if he claimed it didn’t usually result in a flush of affection that tugged at his deepest desires.

This time, all he feels is shame.

“Iwa-chan, I hurt my leg on the stupid coffee table,” Oikawa decides to whine, deflecting Iwaizumi’s attention instead of admitting why his body is truly hurting. “It’s _your_ fault.”

Still, Oikawa leans further on the solid shoulders supporting him, letting some of the weight in his useless legs give as his arm is hoisted around Iwaizumi.

“Whatever,” Iwaizumi’s consternation is unhindered by his tired state. “ _You’re_ the asshole that didn’t text me back last night. You never text me back anymore anyway, Shittykawa.”

_Well, he’s not wrong._

This isn’t the first time Iwaizumi has seen him hungover, barely standing due to alcohol, but this time it’s so much different. He’d stumbled in their apartment in all hours of the night before, but this time is so much more humiliating, much more so than when he returned the night after he’d let that host go down on him in the back of the bar. That night, Oikawa had come home full of regret and nausea, utterly disgusted at himself for endangering himself and his reputation for such an unsatisfying experience.

It’s not like this, where the shame spawns from guilt from exactly how _satisfied_ he is from being screwed within an inch of his life by Ushijima of all people, how the lingering marks tinder the flames of desire even in his thoroughly fatigued body. Ushijima had imprinted so deep inside of him he wasn’t sure he could ever drink enough to even think about forgetting the memory of being thoroughly fucked by their former rival, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to try.  At this point, he’s not sure if Ushijima is his dirty little secret or he’s Ushijima’s, but either way, the betrayal would be too much for Oikawa to ever admit to Iwaizumi. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“You gotta be careful, idiot,” Iwaizumi scolds, taking a cautious step with Oikawa’s arm slung over his shoulders, taking on most of the weight of his childhood friend. “Next time make sure she’s not taken, okay?”

_Oh._

Oikawa realizes that Iwaizumi must assume he’d had a run-in with the boyfriend of a girl he’d slept with, and he’s almost offended at the suggestion but swallows down his reply when he remembers how much worse the truth is. The pair begins to make their way to the hallway that leads to both their bedrooms, and Oikawa chooses not to correct him.

“Good thing you’re such a great nurse, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa tries to keep his voice cheerful, attempts to conceal the pit in his stomach, to suffocate the rush he gets from feeling Iwaizumi against him.

“I shouldn’t _have_ to be,” annoyance tints Iwaizumi’s reply but even in a delirious state, Oikawa can pick up on the same softness that had always always comforted him throughout the years. “...I worry about you, you know. Your mom would kill me if anything serious happened to you.”

Back in high school, Oikawa would have delighted in hearing words of concern from Iwaizumi, but now the twinge of anguish tugs at his tear ducts. It’s fucking torture, such oblivious kindness that he doesn’t deserve, isn’t even sure he _wants_ if he can’t hoard it all for himself, can’t monopolize every gentle touch from him. He swallows his thoughts, choosing instead to just let Iwaizumi guide them further towards his bedroom.

His legs are heavy, knocking against Iwaizumi’s, his head leaning on his childhood friend, and his balance is shaky but it’s all he can do to not collapse. That’s when Iwaizumi adjusts, attempting to bear as much of Oikawa’s weight as he can, but that doesn’t stop Oikawa’s feet tangling in the pant legs that are just a hair too long for him. With a startled yelp, Oikawa loses his footing and reflexively reaches his free arm out towards the wall to brace himself. He misses spectacularly and falls with almost pitiful resignation.

“Oikawa-!” Iwaizumi jolts in the dim light of the hallway, rushing to catch Oikawa in a jerky movement to try and keep him from hitting the floor. A muscled forearm catches Oikawa’s stomach with a thud, causing a groan of pain from the setter as he doubles over.

Oikawa’s mind is still hazy but the pressure on his guts from Iwaizumi’s arm is jarring and before he knows it, his knees are crumpling even further because-- _what the fuck_ , something horrible is threatening to leak out of his hole and he knows what it is. The liquid warmth of Ushijima’s semen shifts in his insides, the added force of Iwaizumi making it so much worse, and Oikawa just clenches his eyes shut as his legs tremble with futile effort. A moan slips from his lips, so quiet it wouldn’t have been heard if it weren’t for the silence of the apartment and Oikawa curses Ushijima with every piece of contempt he has the energy to produce.

“...Oikawa?” Iwaizumi keeps his hold, trying to steady him, his voice confused. “What are you-”

“Iwa-chan,” a breathless gasp splutters from Oikawa’s lips, “Please, _leave me alone_ , I-”

“What are you talking about?” Anger sharpens Iwaizumi’s inquiry as his braces his arm further against Oikawa’s abdomen, bringing his other hand to Oikawa’s back to attempt to steady him. “Are you sick?”

Chestnut eyes burst open at Iwaizumi’s shifting movements against his abdomen and he brings them both to their knees on the hardwood floor, a reactionary groan rumbling against the back of his teeth. The wetness inside of him has sloshed around his walls and he can feel the slick heat leaking from his hole, confirming his worst fears as he detects the obscene, unfamiliar sensation of cum dripping down his thighs as his insides convulse with every ounce of pressure from Iwaizumi. His cheeks flush with anxiety and the aroused reminder of being marked inside, and he can’t even try and stop the urgent moan that leaves his lips, “ _Iwa-chan_ , I...it...”

“...Oikawa?” thoroughly bewildered, Iwaizumi runs dark eyes over the half of Oikawa’s face that he can see, trying to decipher what was causing him to convulse and shudder on the floor. The setter’s shrouded features are creased in what could be pain, and saliva drips from a split lip that covers gnashing white teeth. Harsh breathing wracks Oikawa’s frame and worry seeps into Iwaizumi’s voice, “Do you...do you need to go to the hospital?”

It’s all Oikawa can do to use his remaining coherence to shake his head in reassurance, but with the added movement comes yet another spill of semen that flows from his ass, and Oikawa digs his hands into Iwaizumi’s arm across his torso in desperation. His member stirs involuntarily at the memory of Ushijima’s oversized hands holding his hips steady while pumping a white hot load inside of him mere hours ago, and anxiety seizes his nerves because Iwa-chan _can’t_ figure this out, can’t find out about this, can’t discover that not only has he been so unceremoniously inseminated but that it’s _Ushiwaka_ and his entire world will come crashing down because if he can’t handle Iwaizumi having a girlfriend, he knows he can’t fathom Iwaizumi actively _hating_ him.

“I...I’m sorry,” Oikawa manages to spit out, hunched over Iwaizumi’s arm as to conceal what is most likely a wet spot in his pants. “Just--I...I’m hungover, I can clean up by myself, Iwa-chan, _please--_ ”

Iwaizumi meets him with a cocked eye, his expression puzzled and apprehensive, and he brings his arms to Oikawa’s biceps. “Uh, yeah...well, I...can I at least help you to the bathroom?”

“No,” Oikawa answers immediately, panic crawling further up his balmy skin.

“But Oikawa, you-”

“Just _go away_ , Iwa-chan,” the setter finally snaps, desperation filling his words with the bite of cruelty he needs to make sure Iwaizumi doesn’t debate him. “Leave me _alone_ already..”

Dark eyes narrow in offense, and Iwaizumi withdraws his hands from Oikawa, and he’s so gentle and that just makes it so much worse. He stands back up in brusque fashion without a word. Oikawa can’t bring himself to look up at Iwaizumi and it fucking hurts more than the aches Ushijima’s left on and inside him, to actively push Iwaizumi away when all he wants is to draw him closer, and it’s now that he misses the warmth of Iwaizumi’s shoulders even more. Oikawa falters on the floor, tears threatening to well up, seed staining the inside of his pants and he knows he has no right to even think of going after Iwaizumi.

The door to Iwaizumi’s bedroom door shuts abruptly, echoing through the hallway.

 _But what the fuck ever, you know?_ Oikawa rationalizes weakly as he leans against the cold hardness of the wall. _If he really cared he wouldn’t be fucking miss what’s-her-face in our place._ And for a second, he believes his own words, as if he doesn’t know the truth. As if he can even blame Iwaizumi for the wedge between them now.

Somehow, it doesn’t seem to help.

 

 

The next time Oikawa sees Ushijima is a full week after their encounter. To put it simply, he’s _pissed_. He doesn’t even know quite who at though; himself, for deliberately falling into his own trap, or Ushijima for daring to indulge him. Despite his anger, he squirms in his seat in class every time he catches the eye of anyone that even looks remotely like Ushijima, whether it be a similar shade of gold irises, or sable brown hair cropped close to the neck, and it clouds his mind unbearably despite his best efforts to forget that night. He barely remembers classes those six days, or the girls who flutter around him to check on his mild bruises, or even the way he finds any excuse to avoid the apartment when Iwaizumi might have ‘company’. Oikawa isn’t sure if _she_ came over every day this week but just once is more than enough.

After six days, the setter finds out that just once is more than enough for him to wake up in the middle of the night to noises. Very _specific_ noises, coming from across the hall from Oikawa’s bedroom. The repetitive thud of what must be Iwaizumi’s iron bed frame. The annoying, hair raising squealing that Oikawa recognizes from his own exploits in high school and at this point he doesn’t understand how he tolerated it back then. Now, the sounds are agonizing, grinding against his eardrums like audible sandpaper that fills his innards with disgust and torment. Each scrape of iron against the thin walls impales Oikawa with sheer madness, and he can’t help but clench his fists until his fingernails penetrate his skin, traces of blood staining his bed sheets. He wants to burst through Iwaizumi’s door-- he knows Iwa-chan doesn’t lock it-- and it would be so easy, _so_ easy to just yank her away from him and take her place, no, take _his_ rightful place in Iwaizumi’s bed.

He already knew Iwaizumi wasn’t a virgin. Or at least, assumed as much, given how often his girlfriend was at their apartment. But it isn’t until now that it fully sinks in, and Oikawa knows he has no right in the world to even think of accusing Iwaizumi of any wrongdoing considering his own lack of purity. But that doesn’t help the sinking in his stomach, the grinding of his teeth when he hears a heated groan, so faint he wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t listening so intently. The soft cry of her feminine pleasure is slightly muffled by the walls separating them but there’s no mistake what’s happening and Oikawa feels his misery turning uglier, melting into an angry jealousy that demands he get out of his bed.

Grabbing his phone from his dresser, he opens it up with shaking and slightly bloody fingers, scrolling through the list of contacts looking for the _loudest_ girl he has in his phone. Maybe Emi-chan from his English class, or that teacher’s assistant in his chemistry lab, or maybe even the obnoxious Saya-chan who’s a full three years older. Maybe all three at once, then-   

It’s now that Oikawa realizes exactly what’s more distressing than hearing the constant noise of Iwaizumi’s fucking, and that’s the sound of _silence,_ the quiet stillness that lingers in the night air in their apartment. The heavy implication of which isn’t missed by Oikawa as he realizes that the two on the other side of the hallway are finished, having reached their peak, and now all he can wonder is if Iwaizumi used a condom or not and _oh god_ he can’t handle it for one more second if he has to imagine her filled with Iwa-chan’s essence, because he will go insane where he stands.  

That’s when Oikawa’s fingers press on the keys on his phone, looking through his address book with barely enough finesse to keep his hand from breaking the device in half. The setter knows this is a bad idea, and he’s painfully aware it won’t do anything about the fact that he’s not the one warming Iwa-chan’s bed right now. Knows _he’s_ a bad idea.

Ushijima has always been a bad idea, but this jagged desperation slicing at his heart is begging for relief and now he feels like a junkie going through withdrawal symptoms with how badly he needs to scrape these memories out of his brain, to completely drown out the echoes of what he’s just heard. So far, he’s only found one solution that helps with making him forget, or rather provides a good enough distraction. And maybe that’s all Ushijima is to him, a distraction, but that doesn’t stop him from needing him any less.

Not that he will ever admit that.

He doesn’t care that he might have startled Iwaizumi and his precious date when he left, when he slammed the door, all he can care about is putting enough distance from that wretched apartment.  It’s almost 1AM and the city hasn’t only become more vibrant, but the vast luminescence of the bustling city is only an afterthought when he’s told the cab driver the address he needs to go to. He knows he’s disheveled, knows he already looks like a mess from his hurriedly placed clothing, but all he can think about is how he’s aching to not have much use for any garments soon.

Oikawa has Ushijima’s number, but he doesn’t call ahead. To be honest, he isn’t even sure Ushijima is home, or god forbid _alone_ , but his determination doesn’t waver, not when his ears are still ringing with the grinding purr of Iwaizumi’s bed frame. Self-pity envelops his thoughts, pushing out anything else but misery and how badly he needs to convert it to pain before it consumes him whole.     

Still, he’s not honest. At least, when he finally arrives at the door he only vaguely remembers being shoved inside of last week. He’s not honest in his intentions, and they’re not pretty, or _sentimental_ , they’re raw and ugly nothing worth celebrating. Which is why he offers no greeting, no expected formality when the door opens and Ushijima is waiting just on the other side of the threshold.

Ushijima doesn’t appear to have been sleeping, and Oikawa would detect no trace of exhaustion or even annoyance if he could even bring his head up to face him. His form is back lit by the soft light of a lamp from the interior of his apartment, and he asks no explanation. He knows why Oikawa is here, knows that there would be no other reason as to why the setter has appeared on his doorstep, and he can already feel his fists clench in anticipation. Dark ash brown hair shades his gaze as the ace studies him, looking for signs of inebriation or any other sign Oikawa is physically compromised.

“Have you been drinking?” Ushijima asks only one question as he leans against his door frame. If Oikawa wants to come inside, he’s going to have to ask for it.

At first, Oikawa wants to lie and say that he’s been drinking, that he’s absolutely wasted and beyond rational decisions. That would give him an excuse, a way out from the consequences of his actions, but his body doesn’t _want_ the easy way out. He doesn’t want anything to be easy, to be any less humiliating, to be anything but the cruel distraction he needs to cover up his emotional wounds.

“No, I haven’t.” Oikawa replies, finally meeting Ushijima’s eyes. Ushijima isn’t much taller than he is, but it’s his presence that makes him so intimidating, but all Oikawa can focus on is the twitch of muscles that make up those powerful arms. Arms he remembers intimately, arms that he knows can inflict the medication he needs.

Silence only occupies the air between them for a moment while Ushijima processes Oikawa’s reply before giving an expressionless demand, “Oikawa, go home.”

_What?_

“No,” Oikawa raises his chin and places a hand on the side of the door frame Ushijima isn't leaning against, eyes narrowing in indignant anger that’s dangerously bordering desperation. He can’t be rejected by Ushijima of all people. Not now, when he needs it, when he needs to be _hurt_ , and Ushijima is the only one who can do this for him. It’s not fucking fair. “You said you didn’t want a one night stand, right? Or was that just pillow talk?”

Ushijima folds his arms across his chest, “...Yes, but not like this. Last time was a poor judgement call on my part.” Part of him believes this, but mostly he is testing Oikawa; Ushijima needs to know how badly he wants this, needs to give Oikawa the slightest bit of a chance to escape before he can’t control himself. If Oikawa regretted any part of last week, now would be the time that it would come out. He doesn’t care if this turns out healthy or safe, all he needs to make sure of is the fact that Oikawa won’t back out now.

“What...” Oikawa’s shoulders shake, his eyebrows creasing in painful bewilderment. “What are you saying? You want to start over, ask me on a date, meet my parents or some shit?”

“I’m not saying that,” Ushijima responds. _I’m letting you run away if you want._ “But whoever you’re running from must be worried about you-”

Sudden blunt pressure shoves against the expanse of Ushijima’s broad chest and he lets out a hitched breath when he realizes it’s Oikawa’s fist pushing him backwards into his apartment and Oikawa follows him. Ushijima steps back but his jaw catches a blow from Oikawa’s other hand as they’re both propelled backwards onto the floor. With a groan, Oikawa lands on top of him, his eyes blown wide and face carved into lines of contempt as his knees land on both sides of Ushijima’s hips. The door slams behind them, and the weight of the setter’s ass presses against Ushijima’s groin.

“Shut the fuck up about things you don’t know about, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa snarls, leaning close. He entwines a fist into the collar of Ushijima’s long sleeve shirt, letting the fabric stretch and tear between his white knuckles.

When Ushijima doesn’t reply, Oikawa wonders if he’s imagining the look in the ace’s eyes below him, a portrait of hunger and restraint, as if Ushijima was actually _letting_ himself be pinned on the hardwood floor, as if he even has the upper hand. White flashes in front of Oikawa’s eyes as anger wells up at the idea of Ushijima mocking him yet again, as if he hadn’t done that enough in the past seven years, and his other hand itches with the need to make contact with Ushijima’s face.

Ushijima's not a naturally violent person. He's really not, but Oikawa is just so perfectly, infuriatingly capable of pushing all of his buttons to the brink of madness, right to the edge of his own limitations. Which is why when his cock hardens in his loose track pants, he doesn’t fight it, but he catches the look in Oikawa’s eyes. The violent, barely there avarice that lets Ushijima predict Oikawa’s movements with ease. That’s why when Oikawa winds his fist back, it’s met with the crushing pressure of Ushijima’s grip on a pale wrist, stopping it before the setter can even register what’s happened.

Oikawa then feels the rough drag of Ushijima yanking his hand away, and he struggles with futile effort before Ushijima simply throws his entire body off of him and onto the floor with a thud that knocks the air out of his lungs. His side throbs with the impact on the floor, shoulder aching, and Oikawa realizes that Ushijima is pulling his punches. There’s no way he’d allow Oikawa to be seriously injured enough before volleyball season, but it still doesn’t quell the fury at the realization that Ushijima is still mocking him. Looking up at Ushijima’s crouching figure, he can’t help but shudder at the first draw of pain of the night.

"Don't try to overpower me, Oikawa," Ushijima says with no hint of malice, just the same factual indifference that has always driven Oikawa absolutely mad. "You won't win."

Ushijima is nothing if not painfully honest and that only makes this even more enraging, only makes Oikawa even more desperate to drag Ushijima down to his level because it's not fucking _fair_ if he's the only one hurting. Sure, Oikawa wants, rather _needs_ , to be split apart in every way possible, but he can't let Ushijima stay on that pedestal of his, can't let him have the smug satisfaction of thinking he's allowed to be happy if Oikawa isn't.

No one is.

But he doesn’t have much time to contemplate revenge, because the hand that had been holding his wrist was now brutally yanking at his hair, pulling him up off the floor. Searing pain ravages his skull but it’s then that his cock finally stiffens at the taste of exhilaration, of the medication he’d come here for. Ushijima’s apartment becomes a blur as he’s just dragged through the hallway and to barely lit room he assumes to be the bedroom, and with every pulse of fire in his nerve endings is another decibel of Iwaizumi’s lovemaking he can finally erase.

Suddenly, softness. Oikawa realizes he’s been thrown onto a bed but isn’t allowed to process much else before the thick weight of Ushijima shoves between his legs, and now he can’t hide how hard he is, but with glee he also knows Ushijima can’t hide how hard _he_ is either. Oikawa decides to tease, bucking his hips against Ushijima’s erection. Whatever words Ushijima had been saying about wanting Oikawa to go home were absent now, and Oikawa assumes he must have done something right.

“A little eager, aren’t we?” Oikawa’s breathless gasp slithers out of him.

Instead of answering, Ushijima slides his rough hands up Oikawa’s body, bringing the shirt over his head and tearing away at the smaller male’s athletic shorts to discard on the floor, and now it feels even more _real_ , that he’s really going to get fucked like he needs to be, and Oikawa can’t stop the trembling in his legs as he’s finally exposed.  

In the near darkness, Oikawa can barely make out the exact expression Ushijima’s wearing, but he can pick up on the tense muscles underneath Ushijima’s clothing moving with deliberate function and efficiency, and Oikawa might mistake him for being cold if he didn’t know what was so explicitly promised. But Ushijima pauses, and he’s taking too damn long, and Oikawa can’t fucking stand it. Every minute Ushijima isn’t inside him his another minute closer to being back in his bedroom listening in on Iwaizumi and her, and it causes his chest to heave and his legs to lock tighter around Ushijima’s hips to pull that thick cock to grind against him.

“Stay still,” Ushijima orders and Oikawa feels a hand shoving at his clavicle to push him back against the bed. Ushijima’s voice is hurried and full of arousal and a hint of loathing that seeps into Oikawa’s bones, and he allows Ushijima to have his way this time.

The ace then grabs at his own long sleeve shirt, pulling it off of his chest and over his head, and Oikawa is treated to the sight of a well muscled core now hunched over his body and he cries out when the sensitive head of his member brushes against Ushijima’s solid abdomen. Hot breath laps at his neck when Ushijima descends on him, pressing his clothed erection against Oikawa’s free one, and then he bites, _hard_ , reigniting older bruises and imprinting teeth into delicate flesh. Ushijima’s skin is hot, his scent masculine and full of pine, and Oikawa wants to fight it but can’t help the flush of arousal that makes him open his legs even further for Ushijima to claim more territory.

Loss of sensation makes Oikawa growl when Ushijima pulls back to admire his handiwork as he pulls off his own pants. At least, that’s what Oikawa assumes the ace is doing, but that idea is challenged when Ushijima also reaches for his discarded shirt on the bed. He then leans forward, grabbing at Oikawa’s hands to press the wrists together.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Oikawa bucks and fights in Ushijima’s grasp but Ushijima is unyielding, expression determined.

“If I don’t restrain you, you won’t let me prepare you,” Ushijima answers as if it was the most obvious conclusion, and it’s exactly on target, but Oikawa tastes more annoyance on his tongue because he’s so goddamn right yet again. In this position, Oikawa can’t fight it, can’t help but let Ushijima use one of the long sleeves of his own shirt to tie Oikawa’s wrists together in a messy knot that digs into Oikawa’s skin. It’s not pretty but it works and it’s painful, just like this fucked up relationship they have.

When Ushijima grabs a bottle from his dresser, Oikawa wants to chastise him for leaving for even a second, but when wet digits prod at his still sore asshole, he sucks the air through his teeth and screws his eyes shut. Ushijima starts out with two long fingers and oh god his ass hurts, it really _hurts_ , it’s still so raw from being fucked so brutally mere days ago, but that doesn’t stop the resulting wet yelp of pleasure when he drives in to his knuckles. Ushijima is slick but not slick enough, and the stretch stings his insides even with the lotion. Still, the pain is only child’s play compared to what he really needs, compared to what he has to have to drown out his memories of _his_ Iwa-chan.  

His? No, that’s not right, is it?      

"Get on with it," Oikawa moans with impatience, bucking his hips against Ushijima's fingers inside of his ass, writhing against the hand on his stomach pressing him down against the sheets.

"No," Ushijima's reply is gruff, hardened with the edge of something that sounds like annoyance. "You're still in pain from the other night-" he feels Oikawa's insides flutter, signaling to him that the setter very much remembers their last encounter "-don't _argue_ with me."

"Fuck, Ushiwaka," A belligerent whine slips out of Oikawa, teeth gnashing against his bottom lip. The restraints on his wrists are tight but still not tight enough, just like the pain in his insides isn't deep enough, isn't rough enough to dull the last echoes of those high pitched moans of pleasure from his mind. Glassy eyes shimmer with impatient mischief, his thoughts calculating and manipulative. "What are you waiting for? A goddamn green light?"

Oikawa receives no response. Well, not a verbal one, but the hand on him is unyielding, flat pressure spreading across clenching abdominal muscles and pinning his squirming body to the bed as Ushijima continues to work him open. The setter's walls are tight, soaked insides coiling around the intruding appendages and it's all Ushijima can do to not give in to Oikawa's demands because Oikawa isn't the only one that remembers the other night after the bar. While Ushijima's fingers prod at Oikawa's insides, deliberately avoiding his prostate in favor of pushing deep, the heated memory of flooding Oikawa's walls with his semen takes over his mind and the primal satisfaction almost makes him growl.

"God damn," Oikawa swears, throwing his head back in frustration and pleasure, legs trembling and threatening to turn boneless at any moment. "I fucking _hate_ you." And Ushijima knows he means it, knows every fiber of Oikawa's being genuinely despises him, at least at this moment, while he's deliberately withholding the painful cruelty he's expecting. As if to shut him up, Ushijima shoves the pads of two fingers against the bruised prostate inside Oikawa, eliciting a harsh gasp.

Oikawa quickly learns that he doesn't need pretty words or flowers or declarations of commitment; all he needs is force. Force that bruises, twists, captures, and defiles him until the breath has been torn from his lungs and the last coherent message has been fucked out of his brain.

Blushing marks well up in the wake of his movement across Oikawa's heaving torso, the promise of future violet and blue implied by the bursts of pain that accompany Ushijima's fingers. Blunt pressure squeezes the air from the setter's lungs, and Oikawa has a hunch Ushijima is simply doing this to keep him from arguing for at least one goddamn second but his cock doesn't care, it's rock hard and aching between his legs.

"What, are you afraid or something?" Oikawa moans out his questions with deliberate provocation, pushing his ass down onto the fingers inside of his hole. "Are you too soft or something? I think maybe next time...I’ll pick another guy at the bar-"

Oikawa interrupts himself with a scream as Ushijima brutally shoves the swollen head of his dick past the still too tight ring of muscles between the setter's long, folded legs. Oikawa's hole gives with the forceful push forward, enveloping Ushijima's thick cock in heat, and the abused pink rim stretches impossibly tight around the base of the member inside him. Ushijima can feel the anxious fluttering of the hole around the base of his erection, and he can't help a groan of satisfied, conquering effort that rumbles in his chest as he bends Oikawa almost in half with his grip. This close, he can witness the glisten of perspiration on Oikawa's crumpled forehead, can feel the rapid rising of another chest near his own, can almost hear the echo of Oikawa's blood rushing beneath flushed skin over the setter's whimpers, and it causes pleasure to shoot up his entire body. If Oikawa was doubting his choice of fuck buddy, maybe Ushijima can remind him exactly who he's dealing with.

Until the fire in Oikawa's eyes behind a curtain of damp auburn hair diminishes, and wide, terrified eyes lock onto Ushijima's shrouded golden irises. Ushijima picks up on moisture brimming in Oikawa's eyes, confidence sliding off his face and being replaced by something akin to terror.

"Oh--FUCK, Ushijima, stop, it _hurts-_ " Oikawa's high pitched voice gasps out, his throat constricting, legs struggling against Ushijima's grasp. "That's--you're...it's too much, you're _hurting_ me--!"

Ushijima's breath hitches behind his Adam's apple, faint lines of horror and shock etching into Ushijima's stern features as he rapidly yanks his hands back from Oikawa's thighs and leans back, pausing mid-thrust. Ice shoots through Ushijima's tense arteries as his expression falls into concern and guilt, his mind racing in unfamiliar panic. He never wanted to see Oikawa afraid of him, how _dare_ he let Oikawa rile him up, he knows he's physically stronger than the setter, knows there’s no excuse for this, acting like a jealous child, absolutely no excuse for the fear seizing Oikawa's beautiful features. Ushijima should know better, _does_ know better, should have restrained himself, should have-

"You're so fucking _gullible_ , Ushiwaka-chan." Oikawa's voice edges out with glee, lips cut into a mocking smirk as the fear in his eyes is replaced with laughter.

_Whack._

Unexpected, instantaneous pain blossoms across Oikawa's already red cheek and sends shock waves through his skull, Ushijima's left hand seemingly having slapped the literal smirk off his face. The pain shoots through the setter's jaw and behind white teeth, and it's then that he tastes the copper on his tongue, feels a mixture of blood and saliva drip down his bottom lip. A delirious sheen in Oikawa's chestnut eyes shamelessly shows just how pleased with himself he is, how he got what he wanted, finally elicited a reaction from Ushijima.

The swelling hadn't even started to think about fading when Ushijima's hand grabs at Oikawa's chin, swirling a thumb over ruby droplets. His grip is solid and wet, sliding over Oikawa's cheeks, but scolding amber eyes still lock in the setter's gaze with solemn command.

"You can't do that while I'm inside you," the ace murmurs in restraint, bordering on a scowl, and Oikawa can't help but delight at the smallest twinge of genuine fear he hears in Ushijima's demand. "You do that again and I'm throwing you out.”

The thought of being shoved out of this apartment, naked and vulnerable and humiliated, makes Oikawa’s member throb unexpectedly, and he desperately attempts to take back his control.

"...Aw," Oikawa tries to taunt, but all that comes out are pathetic whispers. "You're really...no fun."

"You don't come here for fun," Ushijima replies with a hint of agitation, returning his hand back to Oikawa's slick thighs.

"Oh?" A raised eyebrow accompanies Oikawa's inquiry, "What do I come here for then, Ushiw-"

Ushijima fully sheaths himself inside of Oikawa's stretched ass again, reducing the setter to a series of agonizing pants and whimpers. White knuckles claw at Ushijima's sheets, and the ace feels Oikawa's hips tremble in his lap, telling him that he's nailed that perfect spot inside of his partner that will finally make him _shut up_ for once. Precum gushes from the swollen head of Oikawa's cock, leaking over his own clenching, full abdomen, and Ushijima’s eyes linger on the muscles of Oikawa’s straining stomach, watching every ripple of pain shudder through Oikawa’s body. Knees anchored by bruised hips lock around Ushijima’s abdomen as he brutally shoves them even farther apart with each vengeful thrust inside, reminding Oikawa just how much force Ushijima _could have_ used in the slap if he’d wanted to.

Before Oikawa can completely process the rude interruption, Ushijima’s voice cuts in, his gruff, hoarse voice speaking between thrusts.

"You come here to be hurt-"

A rough hand entwines in the damp scruff of Oikawa’s disheveled hair, yanking his head back towards the headboard just as Ushijima shoves balls deep inside the setter’s fluttering insides. The air is knocked out of Oikawa’s lungs, his chest heaving with pained convulsions.

"-you come here to run away-"

Deep amber eyes focus down on Oikawa as he continues on, eyebrows furrowed in arousal and frenzy as the ace punishes the setter’s asshole with another thrust. Ushijima searches for _something_ in Oikawa’s wide coffee tinted eyes, and even he’s not sure what he’s looking for, but all he picks up on is contempt and unbridled lust. But if that’s what he wants, Ushijima can more than comply, and he presses deliberately against the throbbing prostate inside Oikawa.

"-but really, you come here to be _fucked_."

Oikawa hates every word coming out of that mouth and he can't fucking _stand_ it, just wants to bite the tongue right out of Ushijima’s mouth so he can't mock him ever again, but it still doesn't stop his cock from jolting and dripping all over his abdomen with each slick drag of thickness inside of him. Tears of rage threaten to well up between the pleasure, Oikawa’s mind still competent enough to understand that Ushijima wasn’t an idiot, that the man currently buried in his guts can pick up on how much of a pathetic fucking mess Oikawa is, that even Ushijima pitied him. The raw reminder of who Oikawa was running from only incites his hatred further, makes his muscles struggle against Ushijima’s grip in his hair, forces his fingernails deep into a tanned bicep until telltale crimson crescents well up, etching his loathing into Ushijima’s skin as if hoping to transfer some of his pain between them. His wrists fight against the ropes binding them, digits curled into whatever skin he can manage to reach.

“I fucking hate you, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa repeats, tongue spreading blood across his lip.

If Ushijima notices, he doesn’t show it; instead, the pain in his arms is inconsequential to the feeling of Oikawa’s spasming walls, sucking and tensing as if trying to eject him while pulling him deeper. He responds by tightening his vice grip on the back of Oikawa’s head, ramming his dick against Oikawa’s prostate until the animosity in the setter’s expression becomes flush with pleasure. Ushijima knows what he’s being used for. And if he were anyone else, he might be upset at Oikawa’s carelessness, but he knows the best way to keep Oikawa around is to give him what no one else can. He knows no one else can destroy Oikawa like this, to just push so deep inside him that Oikawa can feel Ushijima’s cock behind his navel, to force the setter’s legs in humiliating angles or bend him over in shameless mounting and chip away at his sanity.

And Ushijima knows Oikawa is aware of this, otherwise he wouldn’t be in this bed right now panting like a common whore or grinding his hips down against the ace’s dick like the only thing that he wants his cum flooding his ass.

"I don't care if you hate me," Ushijima lets his admission taint the breath between them. "And I don't care if you hate yourself."

_But I’m not letting you get away._

Oikawa knows he's going to ache in the morning, knows he might barely be able to make it on the train home, but the only thing that slips through his lips is " _Harder_."

Ushijima is more than happy to oblige, and he lunges forward again and again, but he’s just not satisfied and isn’t sure he will _ever_ be, as he never feels like he’s deep enough inside of Oikawa as he wants to be. Each thrust only intensifies his desire into a frenzy and he can’t consume enough of Oikawa’s cries, the way those auburn eyes lid behind wet lashes, or the completely wrecked expression that splays across his face when Ushijima ruts in balls deep. His thrusts aren’t sloppy but they are hurried and deep, and he knows he’s thick, knows his dick must be tearing at Oikawa’s insides but he already gave Oikawa a chance to leave so he gives everything he’s got.

“You’re so deep, god _damn_ ,” Oikawa moans as Ushijima begins to fuck the coherence out of him.

Harsh, sputtering shrieks leave Oikawa’s throat as his legs tremble and he’s _finally_ getting what he wants. He’s finally experiencing each feral pulse of Ushijima’s too-wide cock pushing against his prostate and into the rest of his guts and everything hurts just like he wants it to. His own length is jutting forward, rushing with blood and aching to be relieved but in this position with his hands tied, he can’t reach down and jerk himself off, but at this point he knows he doesn’t need to. Humiliation rises in his face, adding to the already reddened state of his wet cheeks when he feels the familiar heat radiating from his abdomen. He’s going to cum without being touched, just like last time, and he’s trying to hold it in so badly because he needs to draw this out for even just a second longer.

Ushijima’s breath is rumbling above him, a deep growl emanating from his chest, and Oikawa realizes he must close too. The grip on Oikawa’s hips is getting tighter, as is the one in his hair, and it’s as if Oikawa can feel the pulse of Ushijima’s arousal growing inside his asshole. It’s intimate and way too close and nothing like he’s used to, and Oikawa hates it but still locks his legs around Ushijima’s body between his legs.

“Ushi-” Oikawa’s cries come out interrupted between Ushijima’s powerful thrusts as he struggles to even breathe. “Ushijima, fuck me, _fuck me_ -”

Instead of answering, Ushijima just surges forward, sliding his hand from Oikawa’s hip to his abdomen, right where the ace’s cock is. Then he just presses down with brute pressure right as he thrusts inside, and Oikawa’s mind going blank because now he’s impossibly full and his insides have been so thoroughly violated by Ushijima’s dick that he can’t help but roll his eyes back and _scream_. Bursts of white cum shoot from Oikawa’s cock and all over Ushijima’s flat hand and he bucks wildly, shamelessly tightening his rim against the dick inside him. The bulbous head of Ushijima’s cock presses against Oikawa’s twitching prostate and his body shivers with pleasure, his orgasm stealing his vision and replacing it with whiteness as he’s forced to expel every bit of semen from his contracting balls.

Oikawa doesn’t even notice that both of Ushijima’s wet hands are now around his thighs, spreading his cum around trembling legs. Ushijima’s thrusts increase in urgency and golden eyes glance down at the puffy, abused rim that’s stretched around him before locking onto Oikawa’s teary eyed face. Their bodies are slick with lubricant and cum and a few drops of blood but that just aids Ushijima’s primal movements. The walls around his cock are so hot, still seizing from Oikawa’s orgasm, and finally he feels his balls tense and the sensation of possession flowing through his veins.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima’s labored breath heats the space in front of Oikawa’s lips. “I’m going to cum inside you.”

Chestnut eyes shoot wide, the only part of Oikawa’s body with even a remote sense of control, and all he can whimper is a weak, “I--you...not agai--!”

But then Ushijima is _deep_ , and Oikawa feels dark pubic hair flush against his swollen hole and if he were in his right mind he’d be upset at how welcoming his body is being, how his insides part open with slick fervor to accept every throbbing inch. Ushijima’s hands grasp into existing bruises on Oikawa’s hips as he shudders, teeth clenching in his mouth, hips grinding against the tender flesh of the setter’s ass. Oikawa realizes he’s not getting away, and thinks he should say something, anything, but then it’s _too late_. Fire spurts into Oikawa’s ass as he feels thick seed pumping from Ushijima’s throbbing shaft that’s lodged all the way inside. Ushijima’s pleasured growl is a purr in his chest that Oikawa feels in his bones, but it’s hard to focus on as the head of the ace’s dick is spurting load after load of cum inside the setter, and all Oikawa can do is just lay back and let himself be completely defiled from the inside out. Ushijima rotates his hips against Oikawa, allowing the soaked walls to milk every ounce from his heavy balls, allowing himself to thoroughly claim Oikawa’s insides as his own.

By the time Ushijima finally stops throbbing inside him, Oikawa is a barely awake pile of what he used to be, a bundle of exhausted flesh and fluids. Ushijima reaches up to untie Oikawa's wrists, which receives a tender gasp. When he pulls out with an obscene wetness, Ushijima brings two fingers to the pink, leaking rim, using the pads to massage the edge. Oikawa doesn’t have the strength to question him immediately, but gets suspicious once Ushijima brings a third finger to place at the entrance to massage the rim.

“What are you...” Oikawa doesn’t even have the energy to finish his inquiry.

“I want this to stay inside of you for now.”

Oikawa doesn’t ask what “this” is but has a pretty good idea, and annoyance creeps up. “And how am I supposed to go home with...that...inside me?”

Ushijima doesn’t let his eyes leave Oikawa’s ass when he replies, “You’re going to stay here.”

For the flash of a breath, Oikawa considers staying. The setter considers curling up in a half soiled bed with Ushijima and letting him be someone else’s problem for the rest of the night. And to be honest, he’s sick of being Iwaizumi’s problem, maybe even sick of being his own problem. Maybe he should stay, even if just to make Iwaizumi worry, to make him maybe just have a hint of regret for letting Oikawa go. It’s spiteful, sure, but Oikawa’s never been known to be the most noble with his emotions, and he genuinely isn’t sure how he would react if he sees _her_ first thing in the morning.

“Move over.” is Oikawa’s answer, and Ushijima doesn’t question what it means. Ushijima just shifts next to him, letting Oikawa have the lion’s share of the bed.

Meanwhile, Ushijima buries his face in Oikawa’s sweaty locks and for a split second, maybe he can pretend this is something different, something more than just hate.

He quickly extinguishes those notions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brain: "hey trashgarden you should update As They Will already"
> 
> me: "ok but I just finished this chapter so too bad LOL"
> 
> [For real, those wondering about ATW, I had to change a few things around because I decided to just start Kuroo and Tsukki's arc, which takes place before ATW and update that soon as a whole new but connected fic shortly I HAVE NOT ABANDONED YOU GUYS]
> 
> ANYWAY i hope you guys are enjoying this too! Thanks so much for the comments+kudos+bookmarks and thanks for letting me drag you all into hatesex hell lol
> 
> Also pro tip: don't check your ship's tag on Twitter because you will see people bashing your fic HA HA HA

**Author's Note:**

> oh ho ho so excited for the smut -rubs hands-
> 
> wanted to include it in this chapter but it got too long, SO EXCITED TO POST THE NEXT CHAPTER~


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